Broken
by Pereybere
Summary: His life has shattered into fragments. The essence of his soul – his past – and ultimately who he was, has been taken away from him. How am I going to help him rebuild it?
1. The Beginning in the End

**Title: **Broken

**Rating: **T now, M another couple of chapters down the line.

**Disclaimer: **These folk aren't mine. I'm just playing. No infringement intended!

**Summary: **His life had shattered into fragments. The essence of his soul – his past – and ultimately who he was, had been taken away from him. How am I going to help him rebuild it?

**Author's Note: **I don't know what word is on the scene, but I _loved_ the season finale. Now, yes, it was all just a dream – but it was a nice insight to how things _could_ have been. I enjoyed all this season's lab assistants brought together in a very interesting and imaginative way and I very much enjoyed the open affection of Brennan and Booth and I think they captured how B and B would be if placed really in a marital situation. Anyway, my story is based around this concept. I had toyed with two ideas – one was that Brennan and Booth's "fictional" life wasn't fictional and the second, the one I'm going with, is them dealing with the aftermath of Booth's apparent amnesia. Let me know what you think. One last thing, **Bones Fiction** was down recently but once again, it is back up and running! Hope to see you all there again, soon!

B&B

I stand in front of our friends, their expectant eyes watching me in the same way hungry tigers watch for prey. Sitting side by side, a row of hopeful and tired faces – Sweets then Angela, Hodgins and Cam and Jared, moping in the corner. I struggle to compose my emotions, devastated that I would have to shatter their expectations with the kind of news they had been silently, privately dreading for days.

"There has been some... damage." No one speaks. Their expressions are a grim representation of the wreckage they feel within – and yet I know their pain doesn't compare to my own. "Booth appears to be suffering from some kind of amnesia. He..." My voice breaks, "doesn't remember who I am." I expect one of them to comfort me, but the line of bodies remains firm – shocked. I am secretly relieved that even my best friend doesn't leap to comfort me, for I'm uncertain of whether or not I can handle the sympathy. "The doctor seems to think it'll take some time before they can determine the extent of his injury." I run the tip of my finger under my eyes each in turn, brushing away rogue tears from my lashes. "It's probably best if you all go home and get some rest." I wouldn't leave – as much as a part of me wants to run and banish the vacant look in Booth's eyes from my memory for all eternity, I defiantly lift my chin and turn back toward his room at the end of the corridor.

He is sitting up against the pillows on his bed, watching the window with a grim emptiness that makes my heart break. "I think I know who you are," he says. A spark of bright hope flares inside of me, diminished by his next words. "Are you my wife?" The question tears a hole through me in a way I didn't think anything could. Just a few days ago I was asking this man to father my baby and now... now he didn't even know who I had been in his life – and I know longer know what we could have become.

"No, I'm not your wife." He slumps against the pillows again, confused. "We work together." I suppose I'd been in love with him for a long time, really. Sweets knows it, although he's kept quiet about it and for that I am grateful. At least I used to be. That's the thing about regret – one moment life is an empty canvas, where possibilities and rife and the next... it's a closed book. No more choices to be made. Booth can't remember who I am and I find myself wishing someone had pulled him aside and told him how I really felt.

"In a bar?" I shake my head again.

"You're an FBI agent, Booth. I'm a forensic anthropologist and we solve murders together." I sit rigidly on the chair by his bed, touching my hand to his. He watches me intently and I look for any flicker of recognition.

"We've slept together," he whispers and this hits me like a bullet to my chest. "We've been intimate, I know it. I know..." his eyes are staring at me – _into_ me. "I know every part of you. Inside out." I shift uncomfortably, my cheeks hot. "Don't I?" He looks so expectant, so desperately hopeful that I can't shake my head again. I can't tell him no. Like turning down a child's request for candy after a nasty fall. I purse my lips together and nod slowly. "Yes," he breathes slowly. "You..." he lifts his hand from under mine, touching his fingertips to my reddened cheek. "You respond to me." This is true, because in fact I do. I have responded to him on a physical level so many times before. The lie in this truth, however, is that he has never been aware of it.

I close my eyes under his gentle touch as his fingertips search my face, like a blind man feeling his way to something he recognises. I am still, half relieved that I am not a total stranger to him, even if his memories of me are fake.

"What is your name?" he asks me, moving his hand away as his voice pulls me back into reality – back to the challenge in which I am about to face.

"Temperance," I tell him. "Temperance Brennan, but you call me 'Bones', mostly." No hint of dawning registers in his eyes as he continues to probe me with the vacant, empty stare. "We've been partners for almost five years, now." His chest heaves under the weight of a heavy sigh. He looks troubled.

"I thought I was a Ranger," he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You used to be a Ranger," I tell him, resting my hand on his forearm. "You have a little boy... do you remember him?" I hold my breath, hoping beyond measure that Parker won't have to wait on his daddy regaining his memory to know who he is. Booth looks at me again, thinking in the darkest recesses of his mind. I can see the thoughts whirring there, building blocks of his life slowly falling into place, one after the other.

"Yes. My boy, Parker." Relief floods me and I smile.

"That's right," I soothe. "Well done." He looks tired, suddenly, straining to draw even the slightest of lucid memories from his mind. "Do you remember Camille Saroyan?" He worked with her a long time ago – long before he met me and before Parker was born. As much as it hurts me that he might remember Cam and not me, I force my mind to be clinical and logical. If it can be determined when his memory becomes blank, it could help progress his recovery.

"Yes," he affirms again. "Cam, she's a police detective." I let my hand slip into his, squeezing his fingers tight.

"Cam works for the Jeffersonian Institute, now. She's my boss. She is also a coroner." He reflects on this in silence, no doubt recalling passionate trysts he shared with Camille long before he met me. I take a deep breath. "And Angela, do you remember her?" He shakes his head now.

"No." He sounds frustrated and helpless, angry at himself for being unable to conjure the people who had been such a significant part of his life. "Who is she?" he asks.

"Angela Montenegro is the Jeffersonian's artist. She's also our friend." _Our friend_. I sound as though we are a couple – with a joint life and joint interests. "Let me get you something to drink," I say, getting to my feet. "We can continue in some time, just relax." He has been relaxing in a coma for days, dreaming wild dreams and allowing his mind to get more and more confused. "What would you like?"

He frowns, still deep in thought. "Just some water, thanks." I slip into the corridor, taking a deep breath. The row of chairs is empty now, our friends having left upon hearing the news. Even Jared is absent – but this doesn't surprise me.

My cell-phone rings as I am slipping quarters into the vending machine. It's Angela. "Hi," I say into the phone, my mood sober. "Where are you?"

"We're having some food before going home. How are you, Bren?" I don't know how I am. A mixture of emotions I haven't felt before are overtaking my body. I feel both exhausted and pumped. Adrenaline is mostly what's keeping me functioning – of that I can be sure. I merely sigh in response to my best friend. "Yeah... it's not good." I had convinced myself of his safety. Until the doctors informed me of his reaction to the anaesthesia I had refused to believe anything could possibly go wrong.

"No, it's not." A cradle the bottle of mineral water in my hand, watching the parking lot through the upstairs window. On the ground people are milling about, unaware of the personal torture I am experiencing up here, above their heads. I've never envied anyone as much as I envy those people right now, not carrying the burden of doubt and uncertainty. "He'll get his memory back, Angela," I announce firmly. "He will." She doesn't reply to me and her lack of optimism, when she has always been so optimistic, discomfits me. "Listen, tell Cam I'm going to need some time off. Indefinite leave."

"Okay sweetie, I'm sure that'll be fine." We bid each other goodbye and I make my way back to his room. His eyes are closed and his lips are pursed tightly together in thought. He doesn't immediately sense me in his room, continuing his mental inventory of those he did know and those whose faces reminded a blank silhouette to him. Like playing a game of _Guess Who_?

"Big guy," he murmurs to himself. "English." I pour him a glass of water from the bottle and his eyes open again. "Who's the English guy?" He gulps the water in three mouthfuls, his lips parched.

"It could me Vincent Nigel-Murray. He's one of my grad-students, this year." I can't imagine that Nigel-Murray would have made such an impact on Booth that he would have remembered him, rather than me. But the mind was a complex organ – a mystery as grand as the universe itself. "Or it could be Doctor Wyatt. He was your court appointed psychologist a while back." Booth began to nod slowly.

"Yes... Highly cryptic. Quite theatrical." Definitely Gordon Wyatt. Although there were distinct similarities there that I had seen in Vincent too. Perhaps it was an English thing. "Maybe he can help me get my memories back." Booth looks haunted, like a man grasping at straws. I sit again, my knees tight together as I take his hand in mine.

"You have a different psychologist now. His name is Lance Sweets. He works for the FBI." I watch him kindly. "Sweets is also our friend." I explain about Hodgins too. There are more grad students to introduce him too, but I think it's too early. Fisher, Clark and Wendell will have to wait for another evening. Maybe tomorrow. "I will talk to Sweets tomorrow," I say, "and see if he can recommend any treatment which might aid in your recovery." I sound like a doctor – strictly detached and clinical. I decide to offer him a part of me – an intimate part of us, to remind him that I'm not merely a spectator in his life. "Before your surgery, we decided to have a baby." I am conflicted by the look of amazement, surprise and delight on his face. "Please remember me, Booth..." I find myself selfishly begging him. He can't. It's not his fault that the memories are gone, and yet I am begging him as though he has some measure of control over it.

"Right now I can't," he says softly. "But I know we had something... special. I can sense that much. I will get my memory back, just to know what it was." I don't have the heart to tell him that he's never taken me to bed and made me writhe with pleasure like he imagines he has. Like I have imagined hundreds of times that he might. I blush and he mistakes this for affirmation that his belief is correct. "You look really tired, Temperance," he tells me. I look up quickly. "What?" he asks, confused.

"You never... really... call me Temperance." I feel weary and deeply exhausted as I sit there by his bedside, four days of non-sleep suddenly hitting me. He swallows.

"Do you disapprove me calling you by your name? Do you prefer this nickname I've given you?" I almost laugh. For so long I objected to being called 'Bones'. I found it derogatory – until it suddenly made me feel special that he had this name that only he called me. I started holding this term of endearment close to my heart – like a private joke shared between lovers.

"I don't disapprove," I reassure him firmly. "And once you get your memory back, I'm sure I'll be Bones again in no time." Despite myself, I hope so.

"Put your head down," he tells me, patting the mattress beneath his hand. "I will still be here when you wake up." My eyes are heavy and I would like nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. Stifling a yawn I press my cheek to the sheet, comforted by his fingers lacing in my hair, stroking my scalp in an almost hypnotic way. "You have to remember me..." I whisper as I doze off. "You have to..."


	2. The Brainy Smurf and Foreigner

**Title: **Broken

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters and I am just using them for my own mindless entertainment.

**Rating: **Still just T for the moment, M later.

**Author's Note: **Although atozmom was rather scathing in her review to me in regards to "I suspect you don't know what a parody is", I must apologise for the equally rude comment I sent back. I had not realised I had put 'parody' instead of 'angst' as the story category. I am sorry I was so quick to jump the gun in replying back – but next time I would appreciate 'Andrea, this story isn't really a parody as you have put as your category'. Thanks to everyone who has sent me reviews for this, so far! I was very pleased to see that so many people are enjoying it and it always encourages me when you let me know! **Note: **There is a brief shift in tenses in this story – to 3rd person whenever Booth is the central focus.

***

Time.

That was Dr Kirby's remedy for Booth's memory loss. There were no medicines to be given, no miracle cures. I feel hopeless as I pack up his belongings and prepare him for the journey to my apartment.

"I have goldfish," he says to me as he ties the laces on his sneakers. I am surprised by this, pausing as I neatly fold his shirt and place it into his bag. "I've always had goldfish, since I was a kid. I keep them in my bedroom. In a bowl, under the window." The sharpness of this memory is great progress – even if it doesn't signal that he is particularly regaining any later memories. "Have you seen them?" I falter. If I admit that I have never been in his bedroom then this will make him wonder about our intimate affairs. Mutely, I nod. "Then we should bring them to your apartment, if that's where I'm going to be staying."

It's been a week since he woke and seeing Sweets, Angela and Jack hasn't jogged any recognition in his mind. He stared at them with an apologetic and blank expression and I watched them each struggle to hide their devastation. It was then that I realised we had all become such firm friends in our years together. He spoke to Camille with a cool formality, clearly forgetting that they too, had rebuilt the burned bridges of their past.

"I will pick them up later tonight," I promise him. "Let's just get you out of here, first." The hospital walls are closing in on me – eleven days of sitting vigilant by his bedside and I'm ready to lose my mind from lack of proper sleep. My rest has been fitful at best. "I'll even stop off for some Thai food on the way." He smiles brightly at me, getting to his feet. The bandage around his head has been removed but the patch of hair that the surgeon shaved has been covered by a small gauze to ward off infection. I had glimpsed the wound earlier, reassuring myself that it was healing satisfactorily.

"Thai is my favourite, next to Italian." I frown at this, then I remember his adoration of pasta in rich tomato sauce, and I sigh.

"You have an intolerance to pasta, Booth," I remind him gently. "You stopped eating it because it gave you belly ache." He ponders this, searching the missing five or so years of his life for some inkling of what I'm telling him. I have newfound admiration for my partner for he handles his enormous hurdle with surprising grace and dignity. I cannot imagine the frustration he feels, searching for his memories and drawing a blank. I decide to change the subject. "Time to go. We can speak with Dr Kirby on the way out."

Philip Kirby was small man with greying black hair and a kind grey eyes. "Good afternoon," he greets us with a warm smile. "You look much refreshed after a shave." Booth gives a self deprecating chuckle and touches his hand to his smooth cheeks. "I know you feel disheartened that a week hasn't made much difference to your memories," Dr Kirby continues smoothly, "but you must persist and give yourself time. Dr Brennan," he turns to me now, "you should introduce things to him now. Items of clothing or memorabilia that are significant to him in the past few years. Anything that could jog his memory." I nod mutely, having already thought of this last night. "Come by next week and we'll see if any progression has been made." Booth shakes the aging doctor's hand firmly, thanking him for his care and attention.

***

"This a nice apartment, Temperance," he says as we step inside. I'm still not used to his liberal use of my first name but I find that each time he does, my body seems to give an involuntary shudder. "Are these artefacts genuine or replicas?" His eyes pass over the shelves filled with treasures from my worldwide journeys – from Somalia to Peru, Japan to India.

"There are a few replicas, but mostly they're real." He is eyeing a crystal replica of the _Koh-i-noor _diamond in its original cut. "That one isn't real," I assure him with a chuckle. "If it were, it would cost millions of dollars and I'd have to steal it from the Crown Jewels in England." He looks at me and gives a low whistle. "It's the largest diamond ever mined and was taken from India by the British. I acquired this replica some years ago while on an anthropological dig in Andhra Pradesh in South India, where, incidentally the original diamond was mined." I'm blabbering, but he doesn't seem to mind, taking the large stone in his hand, turning it over and examining it as though it were genuine.

"You sound like a pretty smart woman," he tells me, replacing the artefact carefully on its stand.

"Yes," I reply immodestly, "I think I am." He doesn't comment on this, moving to the next shelf to an Aztec fertility statue. A genuine one, at that. "Come," I say, leading him away from the ornaments. "The food will get cold if I explain to you the intricacies of all these things." I have forty-seven artefacts in my collection and each one with a detailed and fascinating story behind their history and how I came to have them in my possession. I want to tell him about it, but right now, I have plans to help him jog his memory.

We sit together in my kitchen, facing each other across the countertop. I am amazed at the unquestioning trust he places in me as he slowly and thoughtfully eats his food. Though he is no doubt confused about his life, who I am and where I slot in, he has been open and accepting, trusting me implicitly. "Booth?" I say and he hums to confirm that he is listening. "Look at this." I have decided that I will show him one piece of his history per day – slowly introducing his memories back into his life in the vague hope that perhaps he might see something that will ignite a spark. I've heard stories about amnesiacs that see just _one_ thing and suddenly their whole life falls back into place.

He looks up as I set the little plastic statue down on the counter between us. I have a box of other such trinkets and memory re-joggers. Brainy Smurf with his white shoes and hat and thick black glasses makes Booth chuckle, but I can tell he doesn't see the significance in the little statue. I hide my disappointment well. "You gave me this once, to remind me that being thought of as intelligent instead of beautiful wasn't a bad thing." He runs his thumb over the smooth white hat.

"But you _are_ beautiful," he tells me firmly.

"Yes, but you told me it was more important to have brains than beauty. You said I was better than Smurfette... that I had my looks and more." He chuckles. "I always wanted to be Smurfette." I eat some more, watching him privately as he continues to study the plastic toy. "I'm going to go out shortly and collect your fish," I inform him. "But make yourself at home. Watch some movies, play some music." He gives me a kind smile – an appreciative smile.

"Thanks, Temperance," he says. I wish he wouldn't.

***

Booth stands in the middle of her living room, eyeing the pieces of her life and wondering where he fits in. She is a wonderful, intelligent woman with many interesting stories to tell, of that he can be certain on just a cursory analysis. Her artefacts and her books, the neat stacks of paper filled with words too big for him to even pronounce let alone understand.

He wonders around her home, pausing to admire these little insights into who this woman is. He knows that the have a shared past, although he cannot fathom a single memory to his mind. She tried to hide her disappointment over dinner, when he failed to draw anything from the toy Smurf. But he had seen in her clear blue eyes – if only for a brief second before she forced herself to be optimistic once again.

From the moment he'd awoken and found her there, Booth had known she meant something to him. Perhaps it was the power of his dream – the subconscious being a magnificent and powerful force.

He steps up to her stereo and runs his eye over the vast and diverse collection of CDs she has accumulated. They are neat, organised by genre. She has an impressive collection of world music, with colourful covers and foreign words. He continues to browse, a peculiar sensation clouding his mind. He stands still, his mind lost in another place and time.

"_Hot Blooded...talk about a guilty pleasure..."_

He hears his own voice saying these words, right here in front of this same stereo.

_He sings to the lyrics of Hot Blooded, playing air guitar as he struts about the room. She's there... she looks different – but the same. Reserved and yet open. The room moves as he rocks to the music and then she's joining in, kicking her leg into the air and strumming her own imaginary instrument with unabashed joy. _

_Then there's a gap. He's somewhere else – in her kitchen. And there's a blinding white light and her voice, alarmed and panicked. _Booth flinches, worried by the desolate feeling that comes over him. He can't grasp the rest of the memory, or what has happened. Why is she shouting? Who is she shouting to? He groans, angry suddenly at the picture is so close and yet so heartbreakingly unattainable.

"Dammit!" he snaps, slamming his fist against the table. But this is good, he knows. He saw _something_ – a real memory and the only one so far. "What the hell happened in that kitchen?" he asks aloud, his eyes darting around the living room for another trigger that might complete the puzzle in his head. He draws nothing but a blank.

He isn't sure how long he stands like that, staring into the abyss. After some time, the front door slams and he sees her illuminated by the yellow lamp light that casts a warm glow on the old, exposed and reclaimed brickwork. She holds his four goldfish in a spherical glass bowl, their bodies whizzing around the water. He cannot remember having four goldfish – only two, some years ago. What did he call them, he wonders? Would she know?

"Are you alright?" she asks, her tone edged with concern.

"I'm fine. Temperance, I think I've had a memory." Her face breaks into a grin and she sets the bowl on the table, crossing the room to him. "We were dancing here..." he points to the ground beneath his feet. "To Foreigner, of all things." He begins to think that maybe his memory his a false one, until she emits a joyous chuckle, clasping her hands together. "Did we?" Tears shimmer in her beautiful bright eyes and he is surprised by this. She had been emotionally solid all week and he has admired her for it, yet the emotion she shows now warms him in a very real and comforting way.

"Yes... we hadn't been partners for long. That was during our first year together." Despite the sparkle in her teary eyes, her voice is strong.

"Then what happened? I seen a white light, and I heard you calling out... scared." Her voice rings in his ears even now – the sheer horror and fear, like an icy glove around his heart. But he knows that he had been powerless to do anything about it.

"There had been a bomb implanted in my refrigerator... whenever you opened it to get a soda it blew. At the same time you were reaching for a glass and you were marginally out of line with the impact. A few centimetres to the left..." she leaves the sentence unfinished, but he gets the implication. "You were very, _very_ lucky." Her soft, small hands have found their way into his. He likes her touch and the comfort it brings him – he also feels a spark of something when her skin brushes his. He wishes he has memories of what it felt like to touch her intimately – something instinctively tells him it will be divine. "This is wonderful progress," she tells him soothingly. "Dr Kirby will be delighted, and Sweets. He is speaking with some experts this week." Booth met Dr Sweets a few days earlier – but the fresh faced man hadn't been familiar to him.

"Yes..." he says. "Good, good." She releases his hand and returns to the fishbowl. "He seems like a smart kid, Sweets." Temperance nods her head.

"We've had our disagreements, but yes, he's very articulate and well read. He knows his field and his expertise has proved invaluable to us many times." Booth considers this, sitting on the edge of her couch as she finds an ideal spot for his fish. "There," she announces proudly.

"What are they called?" he asks her.

"I don't know," she admits. "You never told me." Booth thinks he might have named them after sporting heroes, or fellow soldiers in the army. But he cannot be sure. "We could give them names, if you like." Their eyes meet and he smiles at her, that familiar warmth spreading through him again.

"Lets watch some TV," he says, "and we can pick names later." He doesn't know why, but when she sits next to him and shifts into the crook of his arm, resting her head against his shoulder so that her soft breath fans across his neck and sends tingles through him, he feels like she's always belonged there. He wants to tell her that he thinks he might have loved her but he's afraid to make a fool of himself - in case their relationship was purely casual, so he doesn't say anything at all. By the time he's stopped watching TV she's asleep against him and he carries her into bed.

***

**End Note: **Thanks again to everyone who has been reviewing the first chapter! I hope you like this chapter too and will come back for the next one!


	3. The First Kiss and Jasper the Pig

**Title: **Broken

**Rating: **It's still only T – bordering on M and will eventually be MA rated, which of course you will find on my website when that time comes!

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me. I'm borrowing them for fun and oh-so naughty things!

**Author's Note: **I know it's taken a couple of days for this to be up and I apologise for the delay. I'm feeling really tired for some reason and as soon as I sit on my bed all I can think about is sleep. Tonight I told myself I wasn't allowed to go to sleep until I had finished another chapter of _Broken_. So if you are reading this, I am asleep – tucked under my duvet dreaming of nice things (hopefully) and it would be wonderful for me to wake up with an inbox filled with reviews! Hint, hint. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed so far – the response has been amazing and I am very much encouraged!

B&B

I wake to Downtown FM playing a track from the 1980s, the guitar-heavy tune oddly reminiscent of my childhood. For the longest few seconds, as I gaze towards the window, my mind is absent of the burdens that weigh me down during the day. Halfway between being awake and comprehending - when I am waiting on that 'first thought of the day' Seconds tick by and I feel contented and then slowly the mood shifts, the delicate balance tilts and I wonder what that warmth is by my side.

And suddenly it all clicks into place; Booth, his amnesia, the breakthrough last night, his warm body lying next to mine beneath the duvet. Then I hear the soft heavy breaths he emits, still asleep. I am in bed with my partner - the man whose body I have longed for and imagined for years.

Turning over, I watch him - flat on his back he is not bare-chested as I had somehow imagined he would be. He wears an old red cotton t-shirt with a small hole in the sleeve. It's a favourite of his, I can tell, for the dye has long since washed out and the brand logo, whatever it was, is barely visible emblazoned across his chest. His hands are folded primly across his abdomen, as though he had wanted to ensure they didn't wander off on a trail all of their own, during the night. I smile, propping myself on my elbow. His face is devoid of expression - perfectly relaxed. He is a startlingly attractive man, who doesn't snore, it seems and who sleeps with his mouth closed. I think about my own sleeping habits and hope I don't sound like a wild boar at three am. The thought is enough to make my cheeks pink.

I'm fully dressed, too, in a pale yellow pyjama set I bought last summer for when the temperature soared to be hotter than hell. He undressed me and redressed me, I know. Preserving my modesty like the true gentleman he is. I smile again, dropping my head back to the pillow. It feels nice to indulge in this quiet reflection, wondering what he is dreaming and what thoughts might have went through his mind last night as he prepared me for bed. Did he see my asexually or... as I hope... did he see me as a woman?

I lie next to him, revelling in his proximity to me. It occurs to me that I've never really had such an emotional tie to a man before. I cannot deny that physically, yes, there have been partners who have been very much compatible with me. But on a more emotional level there has never been anyone who cared enough to look beyond the pure, rational scientist in me and see how I thought and felt as a human being. Except Booth – and now his memories have been stolen away so cruelly at a time when we were so very close to crossing that final hurdle.

"You look deep in thought." His voice startles me from the depths of my reverie and I realise only now that he has woken up and that he is watching me with curious dark eyes – the colour of black tea. "Anything troubling you?" He shifts to his side, tucking his hands under the pillow and we lie there, face to face, like age-old lovers sharing a leisurely Sunday-morning conversation. Except it isn't Sunday and we aren't age-old lovers.

"Thank you for bringing me to bed last night," I say after a moment. "I was more exhausted than I had realised." I can vaguely recall some animal documentary and then nothing. "I was going to take you to the Jeffersonian today and show you around." I give a long stretch that loosens out the kinks in my joints. He watches me closely and I sense a glint of lust in his eyes. I like it. "I can introduce you to everyone again." He nods politely but I can tell his interest is waning. I glance down and see that the top two buttons have come undone on my pyjama top and there is a certain indecency to how much flesh I am showing. Instead of hurrying to cover myself up as I would normally do, I pull my shoulders back and push my chest out, my breasts straining subtly against the material.

His eyes lower and I can see the conflicted emotions flicker across his face. Part of him wants to remain the perfect gentleman that he has been thus far and the majority of him wants to tear the clothes from me and test his theory about how much I respond to him. What he does instead, I can only assume, is a compromise. Booth shifts closer and removing his hand from beneath the pillow he sinks his fingers into my hair, his palm cupping the back of my head. His touch against my scalp – certainly one of my most easily stimulated erogenous zones – sends a shockwave of pleasurable tingles along my spine. With painstaking consideration he lowers his head and glides his lips across mine in a sensuous, teasing kiss. I can feel the tepid warmth of his breath against my skin and the soft tenderness of his mouth as he stills.

He is savouring the moment, drawing in the memory of this first tender kiss between us. He doesn't realise it, but I am too. Neither of us have ever shared a non-orchestrated kiss and one with such an erotic promise of things to come. My body is taut, his fingers releasing my hair to cup my breast in his palm, gently testing the weight of my flesh to his touch. My nipples tighten at once, his tongue parting my lips with the kind of expert skill that makes my knees feel unsteady. I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his neck and urging him to touch me more – to explore every part of my body and leave no inch of me untouched, un-kissed.

I want to be made love to, to know what it's like to be pleasured and brought to unbelievable heights of ecstasy by this man. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to turn back now. Between my legs a hot pulse throbs insistently and I yearn for him. His thumb flicks my nipple through the yellow cotton, pinching and teasing it until I am sure my body is almost humming. Then I realise it's my own voice, purring encouragement as he kisses me.

When he pulls back my sex-dazed mind doesn't immediately comprehend what he is doing. I lie still, watching him through heavily lidded eyes half expecting him to remove his clothes before starting on mine. He doesn't. He kisses me again, briefly, tucking my hair behind my ears with a tender compassion that almost makes me cry. "What... are you doing?" I ask, my voice cracking.

"We have a history together, Temperance," he tells me softly. "Secrets shared and _something_ that makes this-" he gestured to the space between our bodies, "so special. I want to know more about our life together, what made us feel this way in the first place, before I make love to you." I swallow my disappointment, forgetting entirely that although I can remember every meal we shared at the diner and every conversation we had over a cup of coffee and a cherry pie, he cannot. The only thing he has is the gut feeling that we shared something deep and meaningful. I smile at him.

"You take as long as you need," I reassure him, touching his face. "Let me have a shower and then we can get some breakfast before our visit." I throw off the blanket and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, collecting my belongings as if by default. My mind is still lost in his kiss, the effect his touch has on me physically. "You can change the radio over, if you prefer something a bit more modern." He reclines against the pillows, his arms tucked behind his head. He is semi-erect beneath the blanket and the knowledge of this gives me a little thrill. At least I am not the only one whose hormones are raging out of control.

As I step beneath the hot spray of the shower, I cannot resist touching myself. Within the privacy of my own bathroom I believe I am not committing any sin. I keep my eyes shut, imagining that it is not my own hands but his, cupping my breasts, pinching my nipples, stroking my clitoris. His effect on me is too fresh in my mind and it takes only a matter of moments before I come, mouthing his name silently as I picture what he will feel like inside me, thrusting and calling out _my_ name.

Washing off sticky nectar of my orgasm, I massage passion fruit shampoo into my hair, rinse it and towel off, dressing in my bathrobe. When I emerge the bed is empty and I am surprised to find the blankets smoothed and the pillows plumped against the headboard. The radio is off now and from my kitchen I can hear the sounds of breakfast in preparation. Wrapping my hair in a towel, I smile to myself. How easily could I get used to this easy domestication we've fallen into in just a single day?

I need to help him get his memory back so that maybe we have a shot at making a future together.

Banishing all sexual thoughts from my mind, I dip my hand into the memory box I have accumulated and remove Jasper the Pig.

Another day has begun and it's time, once again, the work on the healing process.

***

Well thank you for reading. I've given this a quick proof read, but I am really so tired and I've probably missed some errors. Please send me a quick review and let me know what you're thinking and if you're liking this so far!


	4. The Unothodox Treatment

**Title: **Broken

**Disclaimer: **No infringement intended. I'm still just playing around with these characters.

**Rating: **This chapter is still T rated. Stick with me my friends; it will be naughty naughty eventually!

**A/N: **Thanks again to everyone who has been reviewing this so much! I can't believe that the response has been so great and the compliments have been amazing! I hope I can continue to do the premise justice as well as keep it as realistic and uncliched as an amnesia story can be! Thank you also to everyone who has added it to an alert/favourite list! On with the story!

* * *

"Tell me about some of the cases we worked together," he asks me as I weave my car through the dense morning traffic of DC. I briefly contemplate omitting the most hard-hitting of our investigations and then quickly decide against it.

"We've worked on so many," I begin tentatively. "Our working relationship wasn't always quite so fluid." He turns to watch me, catching a glimpse of my smile. "At times you drove me insane with your irrational assumptions and ridiculous conjecture." He props his arm against the door, angling himself towards me.

"It sounds as though I _still _drive you insane." Maybe, I think. But mostly in a whole different context.

"Well, you lead by emotions and your gut and I lead by evidence and my brain. But together it seems we have the whole package. Sweets thinks our partnership is 'dynamic', his word, not mine. We visited him for weekly sessions - I don't think we need it but... it gives us a chance to analyse things between us." Booth thinks about this in silence," We worked a case involving a guy called Howard Epps." I sense his anguish, the sudden dawning realisation that he knows this name. His eyes flash angrily.

"That bastard is on death row..." I nod, beginning the story of how Howard Epps tried to systematically destroy us, detailing each horrifying crime he committed, ending with his death on the sidewalk outside my apartment. Each new revelation makes Booth's skin paler, his jaw tighter. "I can't believe I... fell for it. I caused it." I shake my head fiercely, furious that he would fail to see how easily we all were roped in. How each of us doubted the evidence. "He could have killed you... our friend almost died. My son... this Zach guy..." I think of all the lives that could have been lost and the ones that were, I feel deeply saddened.

"The aftermath of this investigation was essentially what brought you to Gordon Wyatt, the English doctor you remembered in hospital." I tell him the stories he shared with me about his time with Dr Wyatt, including his own penchant for nicknaming him 'Gordon Gordon' owing to the somewhat eccentric man's way of introducing himself. Booth chuckles.

"That sounds like something I would do, alright." He lapses into silence again, privately reflecting on Howard Epps and how the serial killer had affected all our lives. The mood is sober and many unanswered questions linger between us. I expect him to ask me more about the case but instead he questions me about Zach. "He doesn't work at the Jeffersonian anymore?" I know that Booth was fond of my assistant, despite his outward pretense that Zach Addy was a bizarre, irritating creature.

"Zach..." I begin, my voice morose. "Zach was my grad student. He was undoubtedly _- _is undoubtedly one of the most gifted and brilliant people I've ever known. He was very impressionable, however... his social skills lacked even more than mine, if you can believe it. Some time ago he got invited to Iraq by the White House and unfortunately we can only assume his time there deeply affected him psychologically. He admits that he didn't fit in and I believe that all brilliance aside it was his inability to integrate and mesh with others that became his downfall..." My story about Gormagon leaves Booth rigid again, deeply troubled when he comes to realise that this boy we trusted so implicitly had allowed himself to be led. It bothers me still because in many ways Zach was my kindred spirit. "It hurt Jack more than anyone," I finish. "They were best friends - albeit awkward best friends - but Zach idolised Jack." We have reached the Jeffersonian and I park in my designated spot, facing the oldest and most spectacular part of the building. "We work in the Medico-Legal lab." Booth nods and unclips his seatbelt, his eyes searching the entire outside of the building as though hoping something he sees might jog something in his memory.

Inside the lab everyone immediately stops what they are doing and rushes to greet us with hearty welcomes. It feels nice knowing that Booth means so much to them and their faces are alight with joy. "Hey man, any progress with that thick skull of yours?" Hodgins asks as he peels off a pair of latex gloves. Booth gives a chuckle, weary and self deprecating.

"Nope, mostly blank. I think I vaguely remember you though... you're the guy who never has any luck with the ladies, right?" Hodgins glowers before Booth grins. "Just kidding, that's for the thick skull comment." Jack rolls his eyes.

"Same old, Booth, really. We thought brain surgery would have made you nicer, too." Angela gives a typical seductive purr, moving close.

"We girls quite like the vulnerable Booth, don't we?" Booth has the expression of a deer caught in headlights, quite unaware of how to handle Angela's brazen come on. Luckily I know my best friend well enough to be sure she is kidding. "And Bren just _loves _playing nurse." She leans close to me and says, louder than a whisper, "I even have an outfit you can borrow." Booth blushes and I swat her away. Clark Edison, whose name has been drawn again for the eternally rotating internship, rolls his eyes in distain. "That is me cue to go," Angela jokes spinning in the heel of her patent leather pumps. "But I'd be happy to model the outfit for you anytime, Clark." Edison gives a heavy sigh.

"This is _surely _sexual harassment. How many times do I have to tell you, Miss Montenegro - I am not interested." Ange winks at him and strides off. I can tell that Booth is quite fascinated by Angela, maybe a little stunned at the feistiness she displayed. Camille demonstrated that not all of the Jeffersonian's women were insatiably horny by giving him a quick hug.

"How are you, Seeley?" He winces. "Oh, I'm calling you Seeley again. We let bygones be bygones." I feel that customary twinge of envy knowing that Cam had once been able to know Booth intimately -- and have him know her back. "How are you feeling?" Booth half shrugs.

"Frustrated mostly. I keep hoping that something will click." I give him a reassuring smile. Jasper the Pig, he said, was vaguely familiar. He described the sensation as being akin to meeting someone for the first time and having a strong feeling of having known them before. With Jasper back safely in the box, I allow myself to believe that progress is being made. It's only been two days since we left the hospital.

"When can we expect you back, Dr Brennan?" Cam addresses me in her usual businesslike form. I respect her work ethic immensely. "We have a body, Dr Edison is very capable, of course, but your expertise on the matter could be invaluable." I am not ready to return to the lab, leaving Booth alone. If he has a breakthrough, I want to be available to talk him through it. Maybe Angela is right - maybe I do relish my role as nursemaid.

"I can set up a teleconference later today to discuss the case but I would prefer to take as much of a passing role as possible. You understand?" Cam assures me that she does.

"Temperance tells me you've adopted Andrew's daughter. That must have been a tough decision," Booth says to Cam.

"You know, surprisingly it wasn't. She's a good kid." I admire how easily Cam has slipped into the role of surrogate mother to Michelle. "Angela and I thought that maybe we could arrange dinner - all of us - sometime soon? Maybe being around us all will help?" Booth nods enthusiastically. "Also, Sweets called this morning; he wants to talk to you, Dr Brennan, about some treatment." This interests me.

"I'll give him a call. Booth, why don't you take a look around? Go the gallery upstairs and get yourself a coffee."

Sweets answers my call at once. "Dr Brennan," he says brightly, "I've been researching this week on what the best method would be for Agent Booth. Now, I know you are highly distrusting of psychological sciences..." I am, this is not a lie. However at this stage, I'd be more than willing to try anything except more brain surgery. "I spoke with a guy called Dr Miller, he works in hypnotherapy and he seems to think Booth is a prime candidate for hypnosis." I am silent for a long moment, sitting at my desk surrounded by all things logical and rational, listening to Lance Sweets suggesting that we put my partner in a dream-state. It's absurd, but I find myself agreeing. If there is even a miniscule chance that it might work, I'm in.

"Set up an appointment, I think he will go for it." I am sure Booth's mindset is the same as my own - anything to recapture the lost years of his memory. "We are organising a get together some time soon, will you make it?" I sense in the momentary silence that Sweets his deeply touched. Like Zach did, he desperately seeks approval.

"Of course, Dr Brennan." We bid each other goodbye and I sit alone in my office wondering what incredible things might be revealed under the powerful manipulation of hypnosis.


	5. The Impulsive Decision

**Title: **Broken

**Rating: **Still T guys, but let's not be hasty about it. A build up makes the sex all the sweeter.

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine. I am never going to own them and for this reason, I declare, I will never write another disclaimer again. Take note: I get it. They belong to someone else.

**Author's Note: **Thank you for all the wonderful reviews I have received for this so far! I cannot believe how great the response has been! I hope that the premise keeps your interest and that everyone is enjoying the budding romance of our two favourite characters. Reviews feed my soul, my friends!

B&B

Dr Miller's office is surprisingly cozy - for a shrink's place of work. There is none of that minimalist theme, with sharp corners and glass. He welcomes us inside and gestures to a traditional cushioned couch.

Despite my preconception that Dr Miller was around the same age as Sweets, he is actually an older man who dresses in tweed and faintly smells of tobacco. I am comforted by him, put at ease by his friendly conversation and soft tones. Booth is tense, standing next to me with a rigid spine and squared shoulders. He confided earlier that he is worried what the hypnotist will reveal about his past. It occurs to me that there are many aspects of his childhood that Booth never got around to telling me. Dark things.

Dr Miller explains, once we are seated, how the process works. He tells Booth not to be apprehensive.

"Dr Miller," I say when he is finished, "I would ask that you delve only into the recent past. There is no justifiable reason why we should look further back, right?" The doctor agrees at once, reassuring Booth that anything beyond five years ago is a no-go zone. I find myself relieved at this - anything I learn about his past, I want him to be conscious of it. I don't want to discover what things happened in his life before me because a hypnotist drew it out like an illicit secret.

However Dr Miller does it, I am not sure. He talks in low, silky tones and his voice is distinctly soothing. Booth, rigid next to me, gradually and visibly loosens. His shoulders slump and the taut clenching of his jaw fades until he looks as though he has fallen into a slight doze. Even his tight fists ease and I watch this transformation, I admit, with scientific awe. How can, a person, I wonder, talk another person to sleep? I know Booth is not pretending. I can tell that he is barely conscious for even his breathing has slowed.

"That's right," the doctor coaxes, leaning forward in his armchair. He holds a clipboard on his lap and a ballpoint pen in his hand. "Now, let's begin." I angle myself towards Booth, watching him closely for any sign that is he aware of what is going on around him. I just barely stop myself from waving my hand in front of his eyes in fascination. "Seeley, can you hear me?" Dr Miller asks.

"Yes," Booth replied - perfectly lucid for a man in a dream-state.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in your office, Dr Miller." I half expect him to open his eyes and announce that it isn't working - but I know it has.

"Good... Seeley I want you to think back a while... will you do that for me? Think back to when you first met Dr Brennan. Have you done that?" A long silence elapses; my heart begins to beat furiously inside my chest. This is it, I decide. The moment when I will learn whether or not this bizarre form of treatment is going to work. Booth's features knot in confusion, as though he is trying extremely hard to work out a particularly difficult mathematical puzzle.

"Yes..." he murmurs at last. I barely contain the elation I feel, and hardly resist asking him questions myself. "Yes, I'm at the Jeffersonian Institute. I'm with... I'm with Temperance. And Angela..." his brow furrows in a frown. "And another guy... I can't seem to recall his name. I..." he pauses for a long time, his eyes shifting beneath his lids, as though he is dreaming. "Goodman," he announces. "Daniel Goodman." I weave my fingers together, nodding enthusiastically even though he cannot see me.

"Tell me, Seeley, what are you talking about?" Dr Miller is making notes now, scribbling on his clipboard but I can look at nothing but Booth and his lips, pursing as he mentally listens to our conversation, like an outsider.

"Temperance is annoyed with me. She says I'm making irrational leaps. I... I don't know what she's talking about. Goodman is telling her to calm down." I smile a little recalling the earliest days of our partnership. Booth could be referring to any number of such difficult occasions. "She's walking away." Miller scrawls something.

"And what are you thinking?" Booth gives a small smile, the kind I am used to seeing whenever he is suggesting something that he knows he shouldn't.

"That she has a magnificent ass." I hide my smile behind my palm, my eyes conveying seriousness while inside I am as giddy as a schoolgirl. Miller smirks, probably quite used to such lewd revelations under hypnosis. "And that she is way out my league," he adds as an afterthought, his tone far more serious. Almost sad.

"Hmm..." Dr Miller says thoughtfully. "Take us somewhere else now, Seeley. Somewhere with Dr Brennan... where are you?" Booth is silent - as though he has fallen into a sleep. There is no indication that he has even heard Dr Miller speak. I wait with bated breath because I don't want this to end. I like that in his mind, somewhere, however deep it is hidden, he remembers who I am. It gives me hope.

"The Washington Monument," he speaks in a trembling voice. "It's cold." He appears to be shivering, even in this catatonic state. I frown. "I've hurt her... I don't know... I can't remember but her eyes are so..." I lean forward, trying to catch the whispered words he is now speaking. He shakes his head. "There's a dead body up here, Dr Miller. We have to work now." Suddenly I remember... that he refers to a case early in our partnership, when a man was left halfway up the monument on a construction scaffolding.

I reach out and take his hand, squeezing my fingers around his. He squeezes back - tight.

"There's time for work later," Miller says. "For now, Seeley, I want you to come back to us. When you do, you should retain all these memories... will you do that?" Booth nods. "Okay... on the count of three... one... two... three." As if by magic, he opens his eyes and focuses on the room. He looks unsettled, a little confused and very lost. He looks at Dr Miller and then at me, staring blankly until the memories he has revisited fade and he remembers the purpose of his visit to this office. "That was excellent," The doctor sounds genuinely pleased. "A few more sessions as successful as this and you'll be well on your way to recovery!" I am delighted at this outcome, however short the session has been. He has memories of us... of our time together and I know we can build on it. Draw all his past out of his subconscious.

"When should I come back?" Booth asks, clearing his throat.

"A few days. Let's not wait too long between sessions." I nod in agreement, something of a hypnosis convert. "I can pencil you in for Monday." It is Friday now - only the weekend to pass before we can see the doctor again. I am pleased by this.

"That sounds great, doc."

"How do you feel?" Dr Miller asks, tucking his pen into his tweed jacket.

"A little... off balance. Like I don't know what is memories and what is reality. But other than that, I feel great." He looks at me, a touch contrite. "Sorry about the ass comment..." I realise I am still holding his hand tight and I squeeze again, reassuring him that I am neither mad nor disappointed. I feel rejuvenated.

"You responded very well to the treatment today. On Monday we will focus on your recent past with your family, especially your son." I dread this because I know he will have to revisit the trauma of Epps and how he targeted Parker. The young boy, so vulnerable, could easily have been murdered at the hands of Howard Epps. Even I feel nauseated when I think of it. "Go home and get some rest... think about things at your own leisure. Sometimes you will find that if you think about what you learned today, and try to expand on it, the memories will fall into place." Booth shakes the doctor's hand.

"Thank you..."

We leave the office in downtown DC and slip back into the traffic heading north. Booth is reflective.

"You know Temperance, that Dr Miller is a miracle worker." Although my rational mind wants to rebuke Booth for thinking there is anything such thing as a miracle, the part of me that is too delighted at the progress doesn't allow me to dispute.

"Everyone at work will be pleased at the progress you've made today. Especially Sweets, it was he who recommended Dr Miller, don't forget." Booth nods. "We can tell them tomorrow when we join everyone for dinner." The radio plays some mellow country tune and we listen to it in companionable silence for a few minutes, until the DJ announces heavy traffic on the north bound route. I groan, filled with distain about the prospect of an eternity stuck in heavy gridlock. "I hate traffic."

"Are you impulsive, Temperance?" Booth asks me. It seems his train of thought has no relevance to what I have just said,

"Impulsive? Yes, very much at times." Too much, I used to be told. At the drop of a hat, I would accept assignments in the most dangerous lands in the world. "Maybe not as much now." Booth gives a wicked smile - the kind that gives me tingles of anticipation. The kind that makes me wonder what delightful thing is around the corner.

"Then let's go south." At first I think this is some filthy innuendo - one that I am ready to opt in to, might I add, when I realise he means _literally_.

"What?"

"The traffic is heavy going north, so let's go south. Let's just drive." It takes around twenty seconds of deliberation before I perform a fairly illegal U-Turn in the middle of the road and head in the opposite direction. When I look at him, he is grinning. "Road-trip!" he announces, laughing.


End file.
